"Cecil wanted some red seaweed for his castle. Cyril is on the rock getting it," said Cecil, looking up. "Mumsie not let Cecil go."
"On the rock!" Esmé sprang round.
The two on the cliff could hear the raised voices. With white, strained faces they listened, bewildered, almost afraid.
"The boy is hers. It is true," whispered Bertie. "Look, he's out on the rock, and it's slippery, dangerous. He ought to keep down."
A little figure was toiling along the sharply-cut edge. The tide was washing at the safe side where the rock merged into the sands, so Cyril kept high up.
"It's not safe; he may fall. You want to kill him," Esmé cried, beginning to run towards the rock.
It was safe at low tide, because the sands were bare, but no place for baby feet on the upper side above the deep water.
"You would not have let Cecil go," Esmé stormed as she hurried on. "Oh, Cyril, stop! Keep near the tide."
Perhaps her voice frightened the child as he picked his way. He started, slipped, and fell over. In a second a little white face could be seen on the calm, dark water.
"Cyril, oh, Cyril! Oh, my baby!" rose a shrieking cry.